The Ancient British Drama ...

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Walter Scott
W. Miller, 1810
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Page 279 - Christians, dogs, and Turkish infidels. But now begins the extremity of heat To pinch me with intolerable pangs. Die life, fly soul, tongue curse thy fill, and die.
Page 252 - Machiavel is dead, Yet was his soul but flown beyond the Alps, And, now the Guise is dead, is come from France To view this land and frolic with his friends. To some perhaps my name is odious, But such as love me guard me from their tongues, And let them know that I am Machiavel, And weigh not men, and therefore not men's words. Admired I am of those that hate me most. Though some speak openly against my books, Yet will they read me and thereby attain To Peter's chair, and, when they cast me off,...
Page 141 - Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute...
Page 185 - I might, but heavens and earth conspire To make me miserable! Here receive my crown; Receive it? No, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime.
Page 556 - tis the soul of peace ; Of all the virtues 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.
Page 165 - So much as he on cursed Gaveston: But that will more exasperate his wrath: I must entreat him, I must speak him fair, And be a means to call home Gaveston: And yet he'll ever doat on Gaveston; And so am I for ever miserable.
Page 189 - To murder you, my most gracious lord ! Far is it from my heart to do you harm. The queen sent me to see how you were...
Page 168 - Tis not a black coat and a little band, A velvet caped cloak, faced before with serge, And smelling to a nosegay all the day, Or holding of a napkin in your hand, Or saying a long grace at a table's end, Or making low legs to a nobleman, Or looking downward with your eyelids close, And saying, " Truly, an't may please your honour...
Page 259 - Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings; Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these 'Christians.
Page 190 - I see my tragedy written in thy brows. Yet stay ; awhile forbear thy bloody hand, And let me see the stroke before it comes, That even then when I shall lose my life, My mind may be more steadfast on my God.

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